


Found

by pocketsizedquasar



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, i'm just soft for them okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 20:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20442389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsizedquasar/pseuds/pocketsizedquasar
Summary: "There's a Japanese phrase that I like: koi no yokan. It doesn't mean love at first sight. It's closer to love at second sight. It's the feeling when you meet someone that you're going to fall in love with them. Maybe you don't love them right away, but it's inevitable that you will." -Nicola Yoon





	Found

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this about a month ago, but I've been super busy so whoops. In the time between writing and actually editing/posting this though, I found that quote, and thought it fit perfectly, so hey. Here you go.

Queequeg learns three things from his conversation with the stranger by the fireside. 

  1. His name is Ishmael. 
  2. He apologizes well. 
  3. Queequeg would protect him with his life. 

The first point comes awkwardly and quietly. The stranger next to him has been watching him for some time now, and Queequeg is content to let him—he is not unfamiliar with being stared at and it has long stopped bothering him. It is only when the stranger scoots closer and makes as if to speak that Queequeg starts to wonder if perhaps there is something different here. 

“I, um, caught your name was Queequeg?”

He looks up now, curious. He gives a slight nod.

He’s not sure if he imagines the stranger growing flustered at being acknowledged, can’t tell if the pink on his cheeks is from the cold outside or his awkwardness or something else. Regardless, he sticks out an intrepid hand and says, “Call me Ishmael.”

Queequeg takes his hand, a little hesitant. It’s still cold from the December chill. The stranger smiles.

The second point comes almost immediately after the first. Ishmael apologizes for the previous night, for his rudeness and his prejudices (his words, not Queequeg’s), makes no excuses but seems, to Queequeg’s surprise, genuine. Queequeg gets the sense that this is a man who is quite used to being sorry. He’s not sure what to make of that, but for the time being he appreciates Ishmael’s apology and sincerity. One apology, though, cannot erase years of hostility and systemic disgust, no matter how open-minded this wide-eyed stranger seems to be, so he assumes that their interaction ends there.

But Ishmael doesn’t turn away. He starts to rattle off, fast and rambling and animated, and Queequeg’s almost taken aback. He’s grown used to people assuming he needed to be spoken to slowly, deliberately, dumbly, and Ishmael does everything but. He talks  _ with _ him and not at him, watches him to see his reactions, makes him feel a little more at home, a little more at ease, for perhaps the first time since he set foot on this peculiar continent. Every so often, he pauses, apologizes again with all the graciousness of farmboy in a ballroom, retreats to offer Queequeg his own space to speak. 

Queequeg is, really, content to simply listen. He likes watching this Ishmael, who talks with his hands and his whole body, whose arms and elbows brush against him and don’t flinch away, whose eyes light up with the glow of the fireplace. It’s a wonderful contrast to the quivering mess Queequeg met the night before. This Ishmael is a breath of fresh air; there’s a strange  _ softness _ to him, now—Queequeg can’t think of any other way to describe it. 

When Queequeg does speak, though, Ishmael stops and focuses and  _ listens _ . He listens patiently as Queequeg stumbles rather ungracefully through Ishmael’s language, eyes wide open and intent on him. There’s something new in his expression—a gentleness, a fondness, that softness that Queequeg can’t yet understand—as they talk their way through the evening, and Queequeg is not at all surprised at the feeling of  _ want _ that flickers through him. 

He wonders briefly if perhaps he should be more wary of this stranger. Just hours before he’d been so terrified of Queequeg that he could hardly stand his presence, and, Queequeg admits, he’d probably been just as afraid himself. The thought passes, though; Queequeg had always been one to love easily and love quickly, had never seen the purpose in reserving his love and affection, so he lets himself be dazzled by this stranger and his eager voice and kind brown eyes. He wouldn’t quite say he’s  _ in love _ , not now, but he thinks that perhaps he might soon be, can easily see himself falling for this peculiar Ishmael. And something about that quiet smile, that  _ I am found  _ look, that Ishmael gives Queequeg tells him there might be something similar in his mind.  _ This one needs me, _ he thinks, and he is more than happy to give.

It’s not until later that night, after they’ve smoked and talked till Queequeg can hear that softened predawn birdsong, after Queequeg’s poured his story out to him, after Ishmael has dozed off curled in Queequeg’s arms, that he fully realizes what this not-quite-stranger is to him. 

He had been vaguely aware of it, of course, in front of that dying fire. Had tried to explain it to Ishmael as best he could, had ended up with a not entirely inaccurate marriage analogy that left the stranger’s cheeks flushing a bright pink and Queequeg’s heart fluttering with warmth. But now, holding Ishmael, feeling his warmth, watching the barest hint of grey moonlight rim his face and hair, it hits him, hard. Queequeg shifts, pulls the sleeping stranger closer to him, rests his chin atop his head and feels with a startling certainty that he would give his life to keep him safe. 

He’s a little surprised at the thought that maybe he might need this, too. That, in his own way, he has been as lost as this soft stranger, that he is overjoyed to have found him, that he would cling to him in whatever calm or chaos there was to come because here was something safe. Here was something found. 

Ishmael stirs, eyelashes fluttering against his pale cheeks. Morning’s still a few hours away, but he blinks his eyes open, drowsy with the smoke and sleep. He gives Queequeg a wobbly, half-awake smile, and if Queequeg wasn’t so certain it was the smoke in his head talking he thinks he might’ve kissed him right there. Ishmael mumbles something about “going to regret this in the morning,” mumbles an apology (again) for keeping him up so late, gives him another sheepish smile before closing his eyes again and nestling himself against Queequeg’s chest and  _ oh _ .

Oh. 

_ Well _ , he thinks,  _ shit _ .


End file.
